


shake off all of your sins (give them to me)

by banshee_in_the_dark



Series: oh, we'll meet again [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, F/M, I Am Dead Inside, Missing Scene, Post-216, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banshee_in_the_dark/pseuds/banshee_in_the_dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke's first attempt to leave takes place on the way back to Camp Jaha after leaving Mount Weather. Bellamy convinces her to stay, if only for a little while longer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shake off all of your sins (give them to me)

**Author's Note:**

> The finale seriously compromised my sanity, so I'm working through the emotional damage via fic. I'm planning to do a series of oneshots, some of which will be connected and other that won't be, some will be a continuation of this first instalment, and others will ignore it completely. Basically my mind is broken and this what you get when that happens :D
> 
> Also, I know you guys are all anxiously waiting for the next chapter of Caught in the Fire so I just wanted to let you know I'm currently working on it, it's almost done, so give me a couple more weeks to get it polished. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta Amanda for another spectacular job!

The idea begins to form in her head the moment they leave the mountain.

She can leave. Get away from everything and everyone that reminds her of the person she’s become, of the things she’s done. Oh, how far she is from that girl who believed there was right and there was wrong and who was willing to risk her life with her father to give the people the truth.

The only truth she knows now is surviving, and she’s done unspeakable things to that end. Truth is dangerous. Truth has cost her the person she used to be, optimistic and hopeful and _good_ , and twisted her into a murderer. Truth is a monster inside her whispering in her ear that she did what she had to do, and that she would do it again.

As they march back to Camp Jaha, Clarke progressively staggers back, never leaving the long column of people entirely, but close enough to the rear that she could slip away if the chance presented itself. It would’ve been easy, everyone around her was too busy taking care of the wounded or relieving the horror of Mount Weather to pay attention to her. Only Bellamy kept an eye on her, and he was closing the procession with another two guards so slipping past him would’ve been impossible.

Her chance comes when they stop for rest. It’s an eight hour walk from Mt. Weather to Camp Jaha, but the wounded need be carried and torture and captivity have left her friends in a deteriorated state, so they roughly estimate it’ll be closer to twelve. A couple of hours before dawn they settle down in a clearing, and this is when Clarke slips away. She doesn’t take anything with her but the clothes on her back and a last look. When everyone’s distracted, she just pads silently into the thick of the woods.

It’s embarrassing how easily Bellamy finds her.

There’s a reason he managed to stay undetected within Mount Weather for a week. It’s eerie how little sound he makes. Even with all her senses in high alert and paranoia breathing down her neck, Bellamy follows Clarke with a velvet thread and she doesn’t even realize he’s nearly upon her until he makes himself known.

“Wanna tell me where the hell you’re going?”

If this were any other moment, she’d be embarrassed by the half-turn, half-jump she did. Maybe when her heart stops beating so fast she’ll find time or the energy necessary to feel anything other than self-hate.

“I just needed some space.”

“Two whole miles of it?” Bellamy asks flatly.

Clarke folds her arms around her and looks away. “I can’t stay.”

He closes the small distance between them in a heartbeat. His hands, strong and calloused, cup her shoulders as his warm breath fans her cheeks. He’s so near if she were to open her eyes Clarke would find his face just inches away from hers, their noses almost bumping.

Being this close to him reminds her even more of how much she’s lost. Bellamy, at his core, is heat. His soul burns like an inferno of pride and duty and the largest capacity to love to walk this Earth in a hundred years. The flames lick those around him, and they either envelop you in a protective hug, or consume you and turn you to ashes.

Whatever this war has done to her, what it’s cost her, Clarke is changed. It took something fundamental from her, leaving her hollowed out. She could find joy in little things before, look to tomorrow and believe good things were coming. Even when the odds were heavily stacked against her, she had hope. But her blood runs cold now, her gut is frigid.

Bellamy’s hands travel up her shoulders to cup her chin, tilting her face up. Clarke meets his gaze bravely, and the last piece holding her together crumbles.

It’s so warm, here with him.

She makes the first move. It’s bold and reckless and could end in disaster, but Clarke has nothing left to lose. Her lips finds his and they lock in a messy kiss. Bellamy’s frozen in place for a fraction of a second, and then his arms wind around her and he’s returning her kiss with so much raw intensity it nearly overwhelms her.

There are many things in this world Clarke doesn’t deserve anymore, not after what she’s done. This, with Bellamy, is one of them.

It doesn’t stop her from fisting his shirt and jerking it open with such strength it makes all the buttons fly. It doesn’t mean she stops madly craving his lips for the short seconds of separation it takes him to pull his undershirt over his head, or that his taste when they meet again is any less intoxicating. It certainly doesn’t keep her from helping him tug her leather coat off, or toeing off her boots while he peels her shirt from her sweaty skin, or sneaking a hand inside his pants to find him hard and excited for her.

She might not deserve this, but she can have it, right now, and forget for a moment why.

Her back protests when Bellamy pushes her against a large tree, but it only heightens her excitement. In sync, his hands grip her hips as Clarke hitches a leg around his waist. The muscles of his arm are tense as boulders with the strain of lifting her. Clarke runs her hands appreciatively over them, committing every ridge and pattern to memory.

“We should stop,” Bellamy says against her skin, trailing kisses up her neck.

Clarke shakes her head, then drops it with a faint moan as he suckles a particularly sensitive spot under her jaw.

One of his arms sneaks around her waist, holding her close to his heated chest, while the other cups the back of her head. Clarke vaguely realizes he’s doing it so that she won’t hurt herself against the tree.

She bites his lip in retaliation. The tiny ache distracts him from her wandering hands. Clarke takes a moment to appreciate his width and length. Bellamy groans, touching his forehead to hers.

“We should stop,” he repeats, faintly, more to himself than out loud.

Clarke’s heart clenches. She aligns his shaft at her entrance, her hips poised and ready to descend on him whenever Bellamy chooses to let his grip on her slacken. Her hands trail up his body, unconcerned with the sweat and grime they find. She’s in desperate need of a dip in the lake too, but he doesn’t see to have a problem with that either. They’re covered in badges of honor as far as she’s concerned. The traces of smoke clinging to his hair and mixing with his manly scent, and hers too, the coat of sweat glistening off their skin in the unseasonably warm night, the caked blood. They look and smell like war.

And they are the victors.

Clarke touches his cheek. The laceration there has healed nicely despite the fact that he’d left it untreated until she insisted he wouldn’t be leaving Camp Jaha to find Finn with her if he didn’t let her take care of it. Only a small faint line remains. Most people wouldn’t even notice it, but Clarke is not most people and she makes it habit to study Bellamy’s face.

His eyes speak volumes, pleading with her to open up, but she’s not emotionally sound enough to have any sort of conversation. Instead, she kisses him. This time it’s sweet and chaste, a mere brush of lips. Suspicious moisture dampens her eyes, but Clarke shakes herself mentally and pushes it back, twining her fingers at Bellamy’s nape and holding on to him for dear life.

He adjusts his hips just slightly and the tip of his shaft pops into her slick channel. He pushes gently, her body receptive but snug and sleek as he sinks into her. Clarke sighs as Bellamy progressively slides into her until he bottoms out. He stops to savor the moment, his breath stuttering against her lips. Clarke buries her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.

_We’re alive._

She might’ve said the words out loud, or maybe Bellamy has developed the ability to read her thoughts, because he holds her tighter, crushing his chest against her breasts as his lips trap hers in a fierce kiss and his hips set a slow rhythm that makes her see more stars than the sky above.

Clarke digs her nails into his skin, urging him on. Every thrust drives her up a few inches against the tree and despite Bellamy’s best efforts, the rough bark bites into the unblemished skin of her back. It doesn’t deter from her escalating pleasure. She wants the sting on her back, and the small ache of his bite on the base of her throat, and the raw pounding between her legs. It’s punishment and reward, chasing away the cold numbness from her limbs.

Bellamy’s hands drop to her ass, digging his fingers in the soft globes. He spreads his legs for leverage and the next time he thrusts up, he touches a spot deep inside her that makes her muscles tense all over. Clarke bites her fist to keep quiet as he hones in on that spot with every thrust, Bellamy’s harsh pants lick like fire on the side of her neck. Her nails are sure to leave permanent scars on his nape, and Clarke can’t help but feel a little proud.

Her fist is not enough to silence her scream when her pleasure explodes. Clarke gives a strangled, high pitched moan as her body goes into orbit, her orgasm crashing over her like a wave threatening to drown her with its intensity. Bellamy’s taken her back to space, skyrocketed all the way up to the forgotten carcass what’s left of the Ark and made her burn like a super nova.

Waves of pleasure slam through her as Bellamy slows his thrusts to deep, violent jerks, and his entire body tenses. One hand releases her ass, grips the bark over her head for balance, and his body spasms against hers as he comes.

Unhurriedly, he kisses her forehead, her eyelids, wipes her tears with his lips. His hand drops from over her head and pries her fist from her mouth so he can replace it with a bruising kiss.

_Don’t leave._

Clarke locks her knees around his hips. The walls of her sex, still sensitive from the rough lovemaking, clench snugly around his half-hard shaft.

_I won’t. Not yet._

**Author's Note:**

> Please take a moment to leave a comment if you liked it!


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